


Dead Man Walking

by Nerd_of_Camelot



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Hospitals, Jay Lives AU, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-02-22 19:57:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13174110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerd_of_Camelot/pseuds/Nerd_of_Camelot
Summary: Waking up in a hospital with no memories always complicates things. Waking up in a hospital with no memories and the feeling of not being safe or even alone in your own head is just overkill.





	1. Chapter 1

He wasn’t really sure what, exactly, woke him up.

He wasn’t sure if it was the beeping of the heart monitor, the whirring of the air conditioning unit in the window above his head, the pounding in his skull, the dull pain in his abdomen that wouldn’t go away no matter what, or if it was just the fact that he’d been asleep (unconscious was a far better word for it, really) for who knows how long and his body couldn’t even take sleeping any longer.

Or, maybe, it was all of these things at once. Or none of them.

Whatever it was that roused him that day, the first thing that consciousness brought him was a stabbing light migraine and the doubtlessly unhealthy desire to die. Part of him wondered why he wasn’t dead already. He couldn’t think of why he _should_ be dead, of course, but somehow he just knew that he should be.

When the stabbing in his head faded some time later, he slowly opened his eyes and attempted to sit up.

It sent a pain like he’d never felt before coursing through his abdomen, and his arms immediately went out from under him, a muffled cry falling from his lips. He wanted to squirm. To grab at the place that hurt and put pressure on it until it stopped hurting. But he couldn’t because the pain had him paralyzed.

And then there was a sudden grogginess that made him blink slowly. Morphine, he was sure. He was obviously in the hospital. But why? What had happened?

… Who was he, even?

He laid still and thought about it, searched his brain for information. The names Jay, Alex, and Tim jumped out at him. He couldn’t figure out which was his. And what if all of them were his and he was just missing the last name? Then he thought “skully”.

Skully?

He’d use that, until he could remember his name. Skully was a nice alias. Oh, and if he was at a hospital, he just had to wait until a nurse came in. They’d call him by his name, wouldn’t they? That would work. But Skully had a nice ring. He wanted to be Skully from now on.

He kept thinking, despite that decision. He needed to remember why he was here… Why _was_ he here? What had happened to him to make his side hurt like this? To put him in the hospital and warrant him being on a morphine drip?

_“Alex?” He backed up a bit. “A-alex?”_

_Resounding gunshot. Pain. Turned and stumbled through a door. Blackness. Numbness._

_Headache._

The spike in his heart rate made the morphine knock him out.

* * *

“Well, good morning Mr. Merrick!” A cheery nurse gave him a smile.

He blinked numbly at her, regardless. Was that his last name? Merrick?

_Jay Merrick_? He tested it in his mind. It sounded right. But was Jay his name? Or was he Tim? He couldn’t be sure of anything except that he wasn’t Alex. Alex was the one who shot him. Alex put him in the hospital.

Her smile faltered. “Erm… Jay? Jay Merrick?”

_Yep. Jay Merrick. That’s me. I’m Jay. Jay’s a nice name._ He nodded to her. He didn’t think his throat would cooperate, anyway.

She sighed, clearly relieved. “Good.” Her smile returned full force. “It’s nice to see you awake, Mr. Merrick! How do you feel?”

He raised a hand. Tipped it side to side. Hoped she understood.

“Been better, been worse?” She guessed, chewing on the cap of her pen. He nodded. “Headache?” Another nod. “Side still hurt?”

He tipped his hand again, grimacing slightly. He shifted, popped his knuckles while waiting for her to ask the next question.

“How badly, on a scale of one to ten?”

He raised six fingers. She nodded and scribbled it down.

“How bad was it before?” Ten. “Well, at least the morphine is helping. Are you hungry?”

His stomach grumbled. He nodded, though he’d been prepared to shake his head no beforehand. She smiled at him. “I’ll be back with some food, then.”

He blinked after her and decided to give sitting up another try. He’d been trying every hour or so since he’d woken back up this morning. The sun had been shining in through the window at the side of the room, bathing the room in gold. Birds sang. His headache could certainly have been better, but it could have been much worse. At least the area was fairly quiet aside from the birds and the gentle sound of babble down the hall.

He managed to push himself upright, this time.

He looked around the room, breathing deep and slow. The window, of course, on the far side of the room. Beneath it was an old-fashioned radiator. The floor was mostly shiny white tiles, with intermittent green and red tiles in patterns he didn’t have the energy to examine at length. Walls were solid white bricks. A shiver ran through him at the thought that it looked a lot like an asylum. He shook it away.

There was all the machinery he could hear and feel. Morphine IV, heart monitor… He couldn’t name all of it, but he knew what it was all for. On the floor on that side of the room was a single little chair against the wall. Next to it was a black duffel bag. Was it his? He thought it fair to assume so.

“Oh dear - you shouldn’t be sitting up like that! You need support on your back!” Oh. There was the nurse. “Let me adjust your bed!” She sat down the tray of food near the end of the bed, babbling on and on about how dangerous it was for him to sit up while she adjusted the bed to support him better. “There we go!”

He relaxed against it, nodding to her. He hoped she understood.

She bustled around the room for a bit before setting up a little table over the bed and laying the tray on it. “I’ll be back to pick this up in about an hour. Press the call button if you need anything before then!”

Another nod, but it was lost on her as she bustled right on out of the room, leaving him to examine the food in front of him.

It looked fairly decent. Soup, some crackers, and a cup of pudding. It all looked edible, and seeing the pale, thin curls of steam rising off the soup let him know it was still warm. That seemed… Almost odd, for a hospital. Edible _warm_ food? Something about it made him want to laugh.

Laughing, however, was a bad idea. It would probably only hurt.

He dared to try a taste of the soup. Then another. And another. And another, and soon the bowl was empty and his stomach was full. That was nice. He had the strangest feeling it had been a long time since he’d had a full stomach. It probably had.

Feeling fairly brave, he ate the pudding as well.

When the nurse returned, he was sipping at the water he’d received along with the food. She seemed both surprised and absolutely thrilled to see only the crackers remaining uneaten.

“Oh, I wasn’t expecting you to be able to finish it all! Good job, Mr. Merrick!”

He gave a half-assed smile, which only made her grin.

“Usually,” She began, without him asking for an explanation, “someone who’s been out for as long as you have has trouble getting that much food down and keeping it there for more than a few minutes.”

That earned a silent chuckle from him - not enough to really test his stomach muscles, but enough to make his wound sting a bit. That sucked. He couldn’t wait for that to heal all the way up so it would stop hurting. Deciding to ignore it, he cocked his head to the side at her and mouthed, “How long was I out?”

He still didn’t trust his throat to cooperate with his vocal chords. Or maybe he was worried that they would cooperate too well and then he’d be stuck in a conversation. Either way, mouthing was better.

“About three weeks, Mr. Merrick. Is your throat feeling alright?” She tilted her head right back at him.

He nodded.

“Well, if you say so.” She shrugged with that smile still in place. “Anyway, your wound is well on its way to healing already, so you should be free to go in about a week. Is that alright with you?”

He didn’t mean for his nod to be so enthusiastic, but he _really_ didn’t want to stay there any longer than he had to. For some reason, the longer he was awake, the more he realized he didn’t like hospitals. But, thankfully, she didn’t seem too bothered by it and instead laughed.

“Well, since you managed to sit up today, I’d say you’ll be cleared for walking some time tomorrow.” Her pager (funny, he thought those things were outdated) went off, stopping her from continuing. And he was sure she would have continued. “Whoops, gotta go!” She went for the door. “Need anything, call button.”

He nodded to show he understood and she was gone again, tray in her hands.

He hoped he got a different nurse tomorrow. She was too bubbly for him. Way too bubbly. He didn’t think he’d survive putting up with her for a week. Not without a growing urge to put a bullet in his head.

And, really, a bullet shouldn’t be his first thought considering his luck so far with guns.

His heart rate spiked again, and the morphine flooded his veins. Heart slowed. Deep breaths. He leaned back against the back of the bed and closed his eyes. No use thinking about all that right now - he didn’t even remember the full story yet. Maybe Alex had had a good reason for shooting him? Somehow, he doubted it. But it was only fair to give the guy the benefit of the doubt, wasn’t it?

After all, he wasn’t even sure who Alex even was, and, hell, maybe shooting people was how he expressed his affection.

That made him snort to himself while he slowly opened his eyes and pushed the weird little table away from the bed. What kind of guy would shoot you to express his affection and then not even bother to visit you in the hospital? One would think if a guy shot you and gave even half of a shit about you he’d be in your hospital room with you right up until you got out. But, hey, what did Jay know? He wasn’t exactly sure how the world worked right now - wasn’t even sure he ever had been.

He probably hadn’t and that was probably why he got shot.

Regardless, knowing that he was Jay and the guy who shot him was Alex left him with a question. Specifically the question of, “Who the flying fuck is Tim, anyway?” And while his mind provided him with plenty of options he wasn’t sure any of them were right. An accomplice to Alex? No. He got the feeling Tim didn’t like Alex, whoever they were. Alex’s sworn enemy? No. He was _pretty_ sure Alex didn’t even really know who Tim was, anyway, past the basic knowledge of his name, and he didn’t think Tim disliked Alex _that_ much.

His mind ran around and around in circles while he sat there, eyes slipping closed here and there before he could remind himself to keep them open. He was starting to get paranoid now, and he wondered if he’d always had that problem.

It seemed fairly new, from what he could grasp of his life.

All this thinking was making him tired, though, and the feeling of a full belly and the warmth of the bed and the sheet over his lower half only served to slowly lull him to sleep.

He dreamed of the woods.

_His breathing came in ragged pants. Twigs snapped underfoot, leaves crunched. He wasn’t really making a very stealthy getaway, but he didn’t really care. It wasn’t like being quiet would save him, anyway._

_It was behind him. It was coming for him._

_He wasn’t safe._

_He kept running, legs long past the point of ‘tired’ and lungs pleading with him to stop. But he couldn’t. If he stopped he was doomed. It would catch him. He didn’t know, exactly, what that meant for him, and he didn’t want to find out. He didn’t want to be caught. It seemed like suicide to stop now._

_But he came to a stop, regardless, in a clearing. Turned this way and that to decide which way to go. A camera was in his hand - he hadn’t noticed before that he’d been pointing it ahead of him the whole time. Split second decision. Go right._

_He bolted, crashed through the underbrush. He had to keep going. Had to keep moving. He could do this. He could do this. Except he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. A cough was tickling at the back of his throat. A root tripped him. He collapsed, the cough ripping its way out, followed by more. He couldn’t stop. The camera lay forgotten next to him, pointing into the darkness through the trees._

_When the coughing ceased, he dared to try and turn himself around to face the danger..._

And then woke up.

His pulse was racing, but the morphine was forcing him to remain half-asleep, regardless of the adrenaline pumping through his veins. It was irritating, but he didn’t have the energy to express it in any way. All he could do was lay there and listen to the heart monitor’s erratic beeping slowly return to its normal state. 72 beats per minute. His blood pressure ticked down from 140/92 to a nice, average 121/80.

He was surprised that a nurse hadn’t come running when his heart rate and blood pressure spiked. Then again, maybe he’d had a lot of nightmares while he was out. And maybe his heart rate hadn’t gone up enough to sound any alarms.

Maybe they would only come running if it stopped or slowed significantly.

He was glad, though, to be left alone. He didn’t want to be around anyone right now. He wanted to be alone. He licked his lips and slowly moved his eyes from the heart monitor. After a dream like that, he couldn’t be too careful. What if something was waiting for him? What if he was still asleep?

… What if he was just a dumb, paranoid boy?

A snort.

Eyes roamed around for a moment. Nothing out of place. Nothing weird. Another glance showed the silhouette of a man on the other side of his blinds - out in the hallway. He swallowed hard, internally thanked whoever had lowered his bed back to laying position, and scooted down the bed a bit, pulling the sheet up to his nose. The man didn’t move. Didn’t move. Didn’t move.

Jay’s eyelids drooped. He was still so tired...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey, just dropping this here and now despite not having a lot after this chapter done because Troy's got me back on my bullshit with that teaser.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are questions he doesn't want to answer, and answers he doesn't have. Somehow that doesn't feel new to him in the slightest, and that's the only comfort he has.

The man was gone when he opened his eyes in the morning.

He guessed that was no surprise - who in their right mind would linger all night and remain until morning? It had probably been a doctor, anyway. Standing outside to wait for any more cues that he wasn’t alright. That wasn’t too incredibly weird.

A yawn pulled itself from his mouth as he slowly sat up and stretched. His side didn’t hurt quite so much today. That was good.

He gave the rest of the room a cursory glance, assured himself that the duffel bag was still where it had been yesterday, and fiddled with the buttons on the bed for a moment before he managed to maneuver it back up into a sitting position. Good, good. He didn’t like lying down. It was like torture. Like he was just waiting around for someone to come and murder him.

It wasn’t like he was in any kind of state to stop anybody right now anyway. He was already in a hospital bed for fuck’s sake. And, oh goddamn, there was the pain in his side again.

_Why did he shoot me? Why would he do that? What did I ever do to him?_

They were useless questions. He’d never find out the answers to them unless he managed to find Alex somehow. And with how hazy his memories of the other’s face were, he wasn’t entirely sure it was just gonna work out like that. With his luck he could go looking for Alex and never find him just because his memory was a little finicky.

How irritating.

His mood didn’t lighten in the slightest when the same nurse from the day before entered the room an hour or two later.

“Good morning!” She chirped.

He had to fight to avoid the compulsion to give her a sour look and ask what was so good about it. He didn’t want to talk and he definitely didn’t want her asking what had him looking so angry. He didn’t need it, either. What he _needed_ was to get the hell out of here as soon as possible.

“Did you sleep well?” Nod. “The charts show your heartrate and blood pressure skyrocketed in the middle of the night - any clue why?” Nod. “Care to share? For the sake of your records, of course.”

“Nightmare.” He mouthed.

She nodded and wrote it down. “Are you sure your throat feels alright?” Yet another nod. “Well, alright. Can you speak?” Another one. “Why aren’t you, then?” She took his silence as an answer, after about three minutes. “Not really one for conversation, eh?” Almost relieved, he shook his head. “Right, that’s okay. Am I making you uncomfortable by trying so hard to start one?” Another shake of his head. “Oh, good. I’m sorry, anyway, I’m a chatterbox. I can’t help it.”

He waved his hand dismissively. She meandered over to the machines next to the bed, checked the monitors, and was quiet for quite some time. Jay enjoyed every second of it, really, because there was just something… Comfortable… About being alone with someone but not having to talk. Not that she was forcing him to talk, of course, but knowing there was nothing he needed to reply to was really nice.

“Okay, I’m going to start removing your IVs now.” He nodded again to show that he understood and she carefully went about pulling out the first one. “Okay?” Another nod. “Good. Once I get these other two out, I’d like you to try and walk around a little.” She removed the second IV. She glanced up for a response of some sort, studied his face, and frowned. But she didn’t push him. “Right, last one.”

It was a little more difficult for her to get out, for some reason or another, and she winced at the same moment he did. “Sorry, sorry.” She sighed. “For some reason, morphine drips never seem to want to come out.”

He gave another dismissive hand wave as she stepped away from the bed.

He took a moment to prepare himself, taking a deep breath or two, and turned himself to dangle his legs off the side of the bed. So far, so good. His side wasn’t giving him too much trouble, his legs were thankfully wide awake and not tingly at all, and his arms didn’t feel like they were going to give out with just the effort of pushing himself further in order to touch his feet to the floor. Now for the moment of truth, though, as he did just that and then pushed himself up onto his feet.

He stumbled, slightly, and she put her hands out to brace him before retracting them with a soft apology when he flinched. Yet another hand wave. How could he explain, nonverbally, that she hadn’t done anything wrong and that he was just paranoid?

Sighing as he saw no other way, he muttered, “It’s fine. ‘M just paranoid ‘bout other people.”

It took almost all of his will to avoid cringing in pain and discomfort at the roughness in his throat and the gross rasp in his voice.

“Why is that?” She probed gently.

“Dunno.” He sighed again, “Jus’ feel like I’ve had some bad experiences.”

She nodded slowly. “You don’t remember for sure?” When he shook his head she cocked hers to the side. “Do you remember why you’re here?”

He made a finger gun and pretended to fire it, then gently poked himself in the side. His knowledge of that seemed to comfort her a bit. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Do you know who shot you, Mr. Merrick?”

Immediately he shook his head, perhaps too quickly. But he really _didn’t_ know. He only knew that the guy’s name was Alex, after all, and that he’d been wearing a striped jacket.

“You’re sure?”

Nod. Better to keep the information to himself, anyway, because it was _very_ unlikely that Alex would be coming back to finish the job. He probably thought he was already dead. He’d like to think that maybe Alex would come and visit him, apologize and say it was an accident, but one of the few things he knew was that it had most certainly not been an accident. It had been deliberate. Alex had shot him _on purpose._ With no explanation.

And if he told anybody, the cops would find Alex before he did. And they’d get answers before he would and that was just completely unacceptable. He needed answers. And he needed them before anybody else could fuck with them or accidentally lose him the chance to get them.

Granted, he got the strangest feeling he’d already lost the chance to get them.

He shook the thought away and slowly convinced his body to cooperate. He took a step forward, then another, turned around. He felt fairly stable. The nurse was grinning from ear to ear.

“Wonderful, okay, I’ll get all these things out of your way, and at some point today a doctor will be by to talk to you.” She was already pushing the equipment out of the room before he had a chance to nod at her.

That was fine. He really didn’t want to be around her, anyway. She was still too bubbly. Maybe he’d get over that before the week was up, but he somehow doubted it. Greatly. Once upon a time he’d probably loved bubbly people like that. But the feelings he could remember from his recent past showed him that he’d started preferring the quiet. Preferring someone who didn’t talk much. Who wasn’t quite so cheery and in fact was rather gloomy in comparison.

He didn’t know where the specifics came from, but he didn’t complain. They came as a comfort of some sort, he supposed. Specifics made him feel safer because while he was thinking about it it was almost like he wasn’t alone right now.

He found himself craving the smell of cigarette smoke and he didn’t know why.

* * *

“Hello, Mr. Merrick.”

The deep, rumbling baritone of the doctor was a nice change from the high, giggly soprano of the nurse. A welcome change.

Jay looked up from his hands, made eye contact for a moment, then nodded in greeting and dropped his eyes again. His mind was too preoccupied for him to maintain eye contact without it revealing how much turmoil there was. No doubt the doctor would notice immediately. And he’d probably ask questions.

Questions Jay didn’t have the patience to answer, nor the desire to.

“You really aren’t fond of conversation, hm?” A low chuckle. “That’s fine. I’d be doing most of the talking regardless.”

Jay’s lips twitched.

“I’m Doctor Nigel Findley,” He held out a hand, and Jay shook it without hesitation. “Would you mind giving me some verbal responses to my questions?”

“Depends.” Jay rasped, lips twitching again.

“On…?”

“If I feel like answerin’ you verbally.” He shrugged.

“Fair enough.” Nigel rolled his eyes. “Anyway. Laura told me you were experiencing memory loss. What do you remember?”

“Um… My name’s Jay Merrick. I knew someone named Alex. I got shot recently. I apparently know someone named Tim.” He listed the things off softly, counting them on his fingers. “Not much else.”

“I see. Do you remember who shot you?”

He shook his head, blatantly lying and feeling no remorse whatsoever. “No clue. I only remembered three names when I woke up and I don’t think either of the other people are capable of shooting me.”

“You have vague recollections of their attitudes, then?”

“I guess? I mean I ‘know’ that Tim was kinda quiet and that Alex owned a gun, but honestly my brain’s telling me that Alex didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger and just kept it around to look tough.”

_I don’t think I used to be this good at lying._ He thought. Then, sarcastically, _Hooray for near death experiences._

“I see. Do you think there’s _any_ possibility at all that either of them shot you?”

“I dunno.” He frowned. Another blatant lie, and yet another on the tip of his tongue. “I mean, maybe something set Alex off and he hit me on accident, or maybe Tim lost his damn mind, but I don’t think either one is particularly possible.”

He waited around for the guilt of his lies to catch up with him, but it never came.

Nigel was silent for a moment, studying him. “I believe it would be in our best interests to set you up with the on-call psychiatrist for an evaluation.” He said firmly. “Do you have any objections?”

“Psychiatrists never listen.” He muttered under his breath, then shook his head. “No, no, not at all.”

He managed to spare a second to think, _Where did that first part come from?_ before Nigel was gone and he was again left with his thoughts. He was still waiting to feel guilty for lying, still waiting for a knot to form in his stomach from it. But it still wasn’t coming.

It wouldn’t have bothered him so much if he wasn’t so sure that he’d always felt horrible about lying. _Hooray for near death experiences._ He thought again, still just as unenthusiastic as he’d been the first time.

And now he’d gone and gotten himself stuck answering questions for a psychological evaluation. Why was this happening to him? What had he done to deserve this? To deserve being shot in the stomach, thrown in a hospital, tortured with nightmares, punished with paranoia, saddled with an overly optimistic nurse and a largely apathetic doctor, and subjected to an evaluation he was sure to fuck himself over with?

Fuck his life and fuck whoever put him in this situation to begin with.

Granted, that person was probably him, but still. _Fuck._

* * *

He wasn’t sure, exactly, when he dozed off again. But he remembered his dream.

_The woods, again._

_There was no panic this time. No rush to get away. He was just standing in a clearing and looking around._

_In the darkness between the trunks of the trees, he caught sight of something white. Clearly artificial and vaguely shiny. The longer he stared, the more it began to look like a face._

_No. A mask._

_A mask with huge black pits for eyes and a rectangle that was divided into more, smaller rectangles for a mouth._

_“Wake up, Jay.”_

And he did.

**Fuck.**


	3. Chapter 3

In retrospect, the psychological evaluation wasn’t as bad as he was expecting it to be.

Sure, he was asked questions that he didn’t want to answer, but for the most part he avoided telling the psychiatrist anything that could get him locked up. “Do you have any history of paranoia? Seeing things that aren’t there perhaps?”

“Not that I remember, no, but seeing as my memory’s pretty much limited to when I woke up here that’s not saying much.” Silence. “I did see someone standing outside my room in the middle of the night last night, but I’d just woken up from a nightmare so I dunno.”

“Any history of nightmares?”

“I think so, yeah. Waking up in a cold sweat felt unfortunately familiar.”

“You’re more talkative than I was led to believe.” She’d pointed out.

“I realize that. But I kind of need to be specific with you, don’t I? Most of _their_ questions can handle just a yes or no answer. A nod or a shake of the head. But I have to explain myself to you if I want to avoid giving off the wrong impression about my mental state.”

“You’re anxious about my possible diagnosis?”

“Kind of, yeah. I don’t want to be told I’m crazy… I don’t think anyone does. But I just… _Really_ don’t want that. It’s the last thing on my list of things I want. Not to mention, I just… I don’t like the thought of being locked up. Stuck in a hospital for more than a week or so. Y’know?”

“... Laura mentioned that you seemed eager to leave. You don’t like hospitals?”

“Can’t stand them. Don’t remember why, clearly, but I get the feeling it’s connected to whatever got me shot and put here.”

“Maybe you’re repressing the events that led to this.” She suggested.

“Maybe. I dunno. Are we done? I’m not sure how much more interaction I can handle today…”

She had pressed her lips into a line, but nodded. “One more question and we can be done for the day. But I’d like to talk to you again when you remember more.”

“Fair enough. What’s the last question?”

“To your knowledge, are you an introvert or an extrovert?”

“Definitely an introvert, why?”

“Oh, just making sure I can make sense of all your cues.” She had smiled, then, “Alright, I’ll be out of your hair now. Take your time remembering, by the way, trying too hard will only hurt your brain.” As he nodded, she’d paused next to the door. “Oh, and Jay? Don’t worry about trying to engage in conversation with Laura. We always assign her to quiet patients - she’s used to doing all the talking. Sometimes it helps to just listen to someone talk and not have to say anything back.”

He nodded again. She left.

He was alone.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about it, really, but he knew it wasn’t exactly unpleasant. Being alone probably should have unnerved him. Made him worry about what he might see while he waited for someone else to enter the room. But it didn’t. He just felt vaguely at peace, staring up at the ceiling.

Sure, he was free to wander the room, but it had no appeal. He wanted to be able to leave. Walk down the hall, out the front door. Leave _entirely_. But he had to wait, be patient, because no matter how much he didn’t want to be there he wasn’t stupid enough to try and leave before he healed up all the way.

Laura came and went, dropping off a tray of food for him, staying for a moment to blabber at him and then disappearing again. He ate with considerably less vigor this time around, but not for lack of hunger. More for lack of attention, really.

He kept forgetting the food was there while he stared at the walls.

Thankfully it wasn’t soup, so it getting cold wasn’t really one of his worries. It was just a sandwich.

His lack of gusto aside, he did end up finishing the food. Laura had returned to claim the tray, by then, but merely stood by and waited for him to finish rather than asking if he was already done and taking the tray. The last few bites of the sandwich felt like a death sentence, with her watching, but it was the last bit of food and he hated leaving food uneaten.

He chewed. Swallowed. Gently pushed the tray away.

Laura collected it, smiled, and congratulated him again for eating more than most people in his situation. Then she informed him that the door in the far corner of the room was a bathroom and prepared to leave. She stopped, turned back to him, and sat the glass of water back on the table.

“You’ll be wanting that. I know you don’t talk much, but your throat will get awfully scratchy if you don’t stay hydrated - among other health problems.”

It made his lips pull up into a smile, which made her grin while she walked off.

How could she be so cheery when she probably worked around fatally ill people all day? Or people who didn’t want her around? Or even people like him who had no desire at all to speak to her? He really needed to learn the secret to her act - if he could act like that, he would be set for life.

That aside, his bladder was making some pretty clear demands and he wasn’t about to disappoint it for the sake of ruminating.

He pushed out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom.

He hesitated in the threshold, one hand on the door handle, the other over the light switch. Deja vu nagged at him. How many times had he stalled in the bathroom doorway, scared to look at his reflection? How many times had he sat on an uncomfortable bed, glaring at the ground and suffering silently, all because he didn’t want to look at his own face?

… What did his face look like, anyway?

He sighed and pushed himself in, keeping his eyes on the ground. The door clicked shut behind him, the lights flickered on above him when he flipped the switch. Deep breath, avoid the mirror, just go and get out as soon as your hands are clean.

But he paused, of course, while he tried to wash his hands. He paused and his eyes moved upwards and he almost screamed. He looked half-dead. He looked _so_ tired. Like he was in _so_ much pain. It was disorienting on whole new levels to see emotions like that on his face when he didn’t actually feel them.

The dark bags under his eyes, the cheeks that were clearly beginning to sink in, the firm grimace on his face, and the shattered appearance of his blue eyes all told him a story. A story he’d forgotten and wasn’t eager to remember, anymore. He looked tortured and depressed.

He didn’t want to know what had happened, but while he stared into his own eyes he remembered. If only vaguely and if only for the moment.

_I’m worried about Alex-_

_burn the tapes-_

_Rosswood Park-_

_in 2006-_

_Marble Hornets-_

_-14 15 3 8 15 9 3 5-_

_-LEAD ME TO THE ARK-_

_NO EYES-_

_SEES ME-_

_I was doing_ **_fine_ ** _. I was getting_ **_better_ ** _-_

_I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN-_

_Alex? A-alex?-_

A gasping breath.

He shut the water off, flicked the lights out, and bolted back out of the room as fast as he could. Collapsed on the bed. Curled himself into a ball and held his head.

But the memories were already fading. He could only remember the feelings. So many feelings. They hurt. They made him warm. Made him cold. Sent a shiver down his spine and brought a blush to his cheeks. Shame, decisiveness, anger, embarrassment. Fear overwhelmed all of them. Fear and confusion, hand in hand.

How long? _How long_?

He didn’t know. It felt like his whole life was fear and confusion. Paranoia and anxiety and all forms of inquisitiveness ruled him. He was a curious man. He remembered that - curious and determined.

All he’d wanted was to help. He just wanted to help. He’d been worried. Worried about Alex.

He tried to help. Tried to save Alex. Tried to save _everyone_. And what had it gotten him? A bullet to the stomach. It got him ‘penetrating abdominal trauma’. Was that all the doctor’s cared about? The trauma to his gut? What about the trauma to his head? To his heart?

Ha.

His _heart_.

What heart? The one that had wanted to save everyone? It was gone now. It was dead.

 _Jay_ was dead.

There was only Skully, now. Only Skully. Only the smart half, the morally bankrupt half, the half that knew what the fuck he was doing and how to avoid being caught in another trap like this. In another _easily_ avoidable situation that would land him in the hospital with no memories.

How many times did Alex have to fuck up before he finally (just now, just a second ago) realized that he couldn’t be trusted?

First the thing with the tapes, and the thing with Tim…

His train of thought completely derailed at that. What thing with the tapes? Or with Tim? What had happened?

He wasn’t sure.

He felt sick. He needed to lie down - wait. He was already lying down. He was okay. He needed to rest. Needed to keep his food in his stomach (rebellious thing. Trying its damndest to get him to expel its contents onto the nice shiny floor) and his mind clear. So far so good on counts number one and two.

If only he could make good on the third part.

He couldn’t. He knew that. His mind was a jumbled mess and none of this was helping. The feelings didn’t help. The rather ambiguous memories he no longer wanted didn’t help. None of it. He wanted it to go away.

Maybe Jay wasn’t dead, after all, he mused. Maybe Skully wasn’t all that was left.

But that left him wondering - when had he actually become “Skully”? He knew he’d said he liked the name, that he’d be Skully from that moment on, but he’d been responding to his real name and acting like a normal human being up until now. His mind had been clear. He’d been somewhat jumbled when he decided to be Skully, though. He’d been jumbled and then it had stopped.

Maybe his jumbled mind was Jay and the calm, nearly emotionless state he occupied the rest of the time was Skully.

If so, he’d rather be Skully. He’d rather Jay be dead.

A part of him cried out in shock at that. In sadness, too, and in offense. He soothed it away silently, curling tighter and closing his eyes. No, no, that small part of him was right. He needed Jay. He needed Jay as much as he needed Skully. Jay was necessary for communicating, empathizing, _understanding_ other humans. Jay was his social outlet, the human half who knew, if only vaguely, how to interact with other humans. Skully was necessary for knowing how to work around whatever they were dealing with otherwise.

The thing Jay had wanted to save everyone from. The thing Skully wanted to inform everyone about.

It was a shame that it had taken this long for Skully to realize who he was, really, because if he’d been himself sooner he could have prevented a lot of self-destruction.

Or, at least, that’s how he felt about it. The part of him that he was going to dub as Jay for now quietly agreed with him. Yes, yes, if he’d been himself before then he could have gotten away. Could have avoided being shot, somehow. He was sure of it. He was smarter than Jay.

Jay gave a disgruntled noise and Skully wondered if he was supposed to be able to interact with himself like this.

It earned a “who cares?” from Jay, and Skully of course agreed. It didn’t matter. No one had to know, anyway. No one had to know and it wasn’t likely anyone would believe him. And, if they did believe him, they’d probably claim he was merely communicating with a bodiless voice with no name, who he should ignore and forget about.

Still, he _was_ smarter than Jay was. He got another disgruntled noise for thinking as much, and yet another for his following thought of “it’s true!” But that was okay. Jay wasn’t needed to help him for a little time yet. He could lay here and work out boundaries until then. Work out what part of the mind was who, exactly, and when who needed to be in charge.

He agreed, for now, that Skully should take point for the most part. Take point until he was safe, and let Jay bleed through for interactions that required speaking. In Skully’s mind, though, there weren’t a lot of upcoming situations that would _require_ speaking past getting out of the hospital. And, for the most part, Jay agreed.

There weren’t many people to talk to and most people who _tried_ to talk to him could really be ignored if the conversation wouldn’t go anywhere, anyway.

At least he could agree with himself on that one. It’d be awkward to fight about what conversations could be avoided, honestly, and Skully was very relieved when Jay said it was up to him (to Skully! He could barely believe how easily Jay handed over the power) to decide if any interaction was worth a proper conversation.

Granted, Jay knew very well that that meant a lot of conversations would be passed up. But he didn’t mind. He was an introvert, anyway.

But this line of thought brought him around to another - how was he going to inform people of the threat when everyone most likely assumed he was dead? He’d been shot in the gut, after all, and while his memories were cloudy he _knew_ he had been recording a lot of things. _Everything_ , honestly. He knew that, deep down. It was less of a memory and more of an instinct. He was sure his ‘death’ had been caught on camera. Probably more, too, if he was honest. He didn’t like that. His death being caught on film meant that he wouldn’t be able to upload on his old channel anymore - he couldn’t chance it.

Funny how, now that he wasn’t trying, he remembered significantly more. Like that he had a YouTube channel where he’d been uploading his footage for the past few years of his life. And that Alex had been increasingly hostile during that time. And that he had _really_ bad luck with guys in masks. And guys who wore flannel. Or, more specifically, one guy in particular who liked to wear flannel and who had sideburns.

Shame he couldn’t remember who that was. He seemed pretty nice when he wasn’t decking him in the face.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter - it wasn't intentional. But here recently I've had a lot more on my plate than anticipated, so I was unable to get a chapter finished by the date I initially had planned. It wasn't until early this morning that I managed to finish the chapter following this one, and that was only after someone reminded me of the existence of things aside from cleaning and generally suffering.

When he sat up, finally, many hours later, his mind was much clearer. Jay had settled quietly into a corner of his head and Skully had done the same at the forefront. Parameters had been set, and he was more than happy to abide by them. No need to overcomplicate things, after all.

He stood, stumbled slightly, and then carefully made his way over to the bag that still sat on the sharply contrasting tiles. Black on white. Who knew whose duffel bag this was? Not him, that was for sure. Hopefully it was his and it could provide some extra clues about who he was and what the fuck he was supposed to be doing with his life aside from running from… _Something_.

He knelt next to the chair, nearly falling over when he reached for the bag. Wobbling while sitting forward on your haunches isn’t a good idea. He caught himself (barely) on the chair and tried again, reaching out to the bag and hooking his fingers in the strap. He tugged it toward himself.

With it safely in his grasp, he managed to get to his feet with some measure of difficulty and wobbled back to the bed.

He should be walking more. His legs weren’t fond of this whole “sitting and laying down all the time” thing.

Not really a surprise, considering the facts. He was _pretty_ sure he’d meant it literally when his memory told him he’d been running from something or someone for a long time now.

He unzipped the bag with care, holding his breath and biting his bottom lip.

Staring up at him from within was a white mask with too-big eye holes. In place of a mouth was the black outline of a rectangle, divided into smaller rectangles.

He picked the mask up and examined it closer for a moment. Finally, he shuddered and sat it aside. In some strange way it seemed to beckon to him, call out... It was unnerving. Some time later he would realize where he’d seen it before that caused him to be unnerved. But that time was not now.

Beneath it was a pair of dark gray fingerless gloves and some lighter grey shoes that he couldn’t quite place the brand of and didn’t feel like examining with more than a cursory glance. They looked like typical skate shoes to him.

He removed those items as well, setting them with the mask.

Next was a black hoodie. It was examined and sat aside just the same as the other items. The dark jeans beneath it followed suit.

Beneath those, things got… Interesting. A multitude of rolls of cash sat around a rather expensive looking camera. Each roll was exactly the same size, so out of curiosity he picked one of them up, removed the rubber band, and began counting.

$1,000 in $100 bills.

He then counted the amount of rolls.

50.

_Holy shit. $50,000 in cash. Right here. This is… Holy shit._

He quickly rolled the first one back up and shoved it back in the bag, choosing to remove the camera and set it aside instead, and if he hadn’t he likely wouldn’t have noticed the logo beneath it. Was that…? It was. A laptop.

Hopefully _his_ laptop.

He pulled it out and opened it, noting the charger coiled up underneath where it had been. Good to know it was there, just in case.

The laptop came on without a problem, fairly quick for its obvious age. Good, good. He had a laptop that worked, more than enough cash to hold him over until he could get a safe house and good job, and a plan forming in his head.

He made sure to keep it from Jay. He didn’t need to know. His plans were his plans, after all, and only his.

Jay seemed to understand.

(Or maybe Skully was just really bad at reading his own emotions.)

It didn’t matter what the case was. Soon Jay wouldn’t even know he existed. Soon Jay and Skully together would not be ‘he’. Jay and Skully would be ‘they’. Separate parts of the consciousness, no longer working in accordance with each other. Jay would be sleeping and Skully would make him safe.

The way Tim slept and Masky made him safe.

Strange - how did he know that? How did he remember?

It didn’t matter, he decided. It didn’t matter how he knew.

“You will deal with the nurses, Jay.” Skully murmured, staring at the laptop. “You will deal with the doctors. You will deal with the psychiatrist. And you will make sure that we leave this place.”

There was a tired, mumbled affirmative.

“Once we leave, we will station ourselves at a motel. You will sleep. I will work. And you will forget that I am here until it is safe for you.”

Another affirmative.

“Rest.”

He barely heard this agreement, but he got it anyway. And then his mind felt considerably clearer. Jay really was his jumbled self. Skully was the order, the silence, the comfort. He was better. Smarter.

He’d learned his lesson.

No more cameras. No more tapes. He would not fall prey to its trap again. He didn’t care what it did, he wasn’t going to be recording his every move anymore. To hell with lost time. It wasn’t worth _it_ being able to track him.

Funny how he remembered so much more than Jay did, and yet he still wasn’t exactly sure what the password for their laptop was.

Oh, well.

He finally got around to putting everything back into the duffel bag, regardless of the growing urge to just book it out of the hospital, and settled back down on the bed. The sun had long since gone down and he was honestly somewhat exhausted from his little breakdown. He hummed to himself and stared at the ceiling, contemplating whether wearing his mask here in the hospital was a bad idea.

It probably was. And he knew it was his mask - it felt _right_. It felt like him. But wearing it here might make the staff ask questions, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to get out of here and stay out. He didn’t want any questions toward his mental state that he couldn’t easily brush off by being articulate in some manner.

He laid awake.

* * *

“Morning, Mr. Merrick!” Laura grinned at him from the doorway.

How long had he been awake now? He wasn’t sure. He just knew sleep had not been forthcoming until very late the previous night and the rising sun had roused him the moment it had made its debut this morning. That is, if he’d really slept at all. He wasn’t sure the dreamless void he’d occupied for _maybe_ two hours counted as being asleep.

“Morning.” He replied with a rasp he was staring to get used to, a beat too late.

Not like it mattered. She wasn’t expecting a verbal reply anyway, so even if it was late she’d be ecstatic. And, oh, look at her. Look at her face. She _was_ ecstatic.

Hooray.

“How are you feeling today?” She bustled toward him with a tray of food - looked breakfasty.

“Decent, I guess.” He shrugged while she sat the tray on the little table.

Yep. Breakfast. Eggs and toast. A nice glass of orange juice, too. Really, it was just missing bacon. He wondered if it was worth it to make that joke aloud while he listened to Laura drone on about some unimportant thing or another. He decided it wasn’t.

She left him after a few minutes.

He picked at his food for an hour or so.

In the end he only ate the toast. He drank the orange juice like it was the first liquid he’d had in a week. If he wasn’t very well aware that he’d drained a glass of water around midnight the night before, he might have believed his comparison. It certainly wasn’t a long shot, considering his past.

His past that had kept him up until he fell into a black abyss for a while.

He still didn’t remember much, regardless of whether he was Jay or Skully, but they did unanimously remember considerably more than they had before. He remembered he was 20-something, maybe 30. He remembered he’d grown up in Alabama. He couldn’t remember for sure if he’d had any siblings, but he remembered he’d had anxiety. An actual anxiety disorder, he believed. He remembered that Alex (Alex, the man who shot him, the man who wanted him dead) had once been a very good friend of his. They’d gone to college together, he’d helped with Alex’s dumb college movie, he’d asked for the tapes…

Demanded them, really.

But he still couldn’t remember what Tim looked like. Couldn’t remember how he acted. One would think that he’d remember him a little better, seeing as his name had been on his brain when he’d first woke up. But… No. He remembered his name was Tim. Tim Wright. And he had sideburns. And he liked red flannel shirts. Aside from that? Tim was an enigma to him.

He hated it.

When he finally pulled his brain back into the present, Laura had taken the tray and gone. He had a new glass of water, now, too. He considered trying to figure out how long he’d been lost in his own head, but knew it’d likely only get him lost again. It wasn’t worth it when he should be using his energy on trying to remember everything that had brought him here.

Really, if he could just remember his laptop password, he was quite sure he could find everything else fairly easily.

Unfortunately, the problem was that the password was evading him at every possible turn. It was starting to seem like he’d remember everything else on his own long before he guessed his password.

As one would expect, that feeling was somewhat disheartening, but to his credit he _was_ trying his best not to lose hope. Surely the password would come to him if he was patient. And it wasn’t like he _had_ to remember it before he left the hospital. In fact, it was probably better for him if he didn’t.

If he remembered now, he’d feel obligated to look into his past and if he looked into his past he would feel obligated to spill it to the psychiatrist.

… Or would he?

He’d had no problem lying to her so far, and what was to stop him from doing it again? His morals? _Snerk_ \- oh, look, he’d _almost_ laughed -, no. _Jay_ was the one with morals, and even _he_ hadn’t had much of a problem with Skully lying to her. He wanted to get out of here as much as Skully did. _By any means necessary._

Well. They’d manage it soon.

He was sure of it.


End file.
